The Current State of Everything
by ecb327
Summary: AU Kidlock fic. John's forced to be lab partners with geeky Sherlock Holmes, which doesn't turn out nearly as badly as he had anticipated.
1. Chem Labs and Near Misses

_Author's note –_ Hey! So I've received requests for more kidlock, and I adore writing kidlock, so I kind of took the request and ran with it. I'm not sure how you guys will respond, so please leave a review to let me know if you like it and want me to continue! Thanks.

–––––

"You're an idiot," I said.

"False. I am unusually bright for my age."

"Yeah, well, for being 'unusually bright' you sure can be dumb."

"For being two years older than me, you sure can be tiny. What are you, 75 pounds?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "No."

He narrowed his eyes, but before he could make another guess, I slammed a textbook on the table in front of him. "Focus."

"You're acting as if it's my fault we aren't following the very simplistic, nineteen-step approach I suggested for this lab."

"It is," I snapped.

"Excuse me? I definitely proposed that we implement them –"

"Irrelevant." Oh, god, I sounded like him. I rubbed a hand across my face. "It's nearly midnight and we're not getting anything done."

"Tomorrow's Saturday, we can finish then. Rather, you can; I'll keep working and update you once I'm done." He started gathering books and papers and rubrics, refusing the school's chemistry supplies I proffered. "I have far superior scientific equipment at home."

Weirdo. "Okay," I said.

"Well, goodnight."

"Yes." I stood awkwardly, neither of us entirely sure what to do. I'd met him years ago, of course, us being neighbors. We weren't strangers.

Except in a way we kind of were, in the context of school. He was twelve, taking ninth grade classes. One of which I was forced to attend. Adding insult to injury was the fact that out of the entire student body, I'd been chosen as his lab partner. At our first (re?)introduction, he rattled off what I'd had for breakfast, how old my cat was, and the length of my phone call with Grandma the previous evening. This he followed up with a blasé, "I know the current state of everything, try me," and, when I did not respond, tacked on an "oh and hello, I'm Sherlock. You are John Hamish –" at which point I either stormed off or tried to tell on him. Neither were ever remotely effective methods of dismissal, though. He followed, too incapable of reading social cues to have any sense of shame, and the teachers had been conditioned to resent and fear him; both he and his brother, it turns out, were hellish all through school and consistently topics of staff meeting gossip. What a badass.

"Goodbye," he said crisply. I realized I was standing, apparently transfixed by the doorknob.

"Let me walk you home," I said.

"It's just down the street," he replied uncertainly, adjusting his wool scarf. "Don't overexert yourself."

"What, do you think I'm going to kick the bucket if I'm forced to walk half a block down the road with you at twelve in the morning?"

"No, but your social life will, if we are seen," he said levelly. "I know that the probability of someone who attends our school and whose opinion you value showing up on this particular road on a Friday evening is highly likely, and I am not particularly keen on blackmailing a horde of fourteen-year-olds. Terribly dull and tedious."

"Do you have the entire grade blackmailed?" I asked. "I don't want to know the answer."

"Why you would ask a question you do not want the answer to is foolish and peculiar." He zipped up his book bag, slung the strap over his shoulder. "I'll see you later."

"Are you sure? I don't mind." I was extremely surprised to discover that I really, genuinely did not mind. Frustrating as odd Sherlock Holmes was, something about his demeanor was... charming. Not the part that dissected the substitute teacher's cat, or that reduced Brenna Ryan to tears on a daily basis, but the part that was so honest and frank and guileless. Moreover, his reference to the fact that he didn't want to go to the bother to blackmail my classmates implied that he would defend me against their harassment, if necessary.

"It's quite alright." He walked down the stairs, skinny arms straining slightly around the fat textbook he couldn't fit in his bag.

"Hey, wait," I said, and stuffed my feet into the closest pair of trainers. I had quite the collection strewn all over the house, much to Mum's chagrin. She had her hands full with Harry, though.

Speaking of. I was halfway to Sherlock when my (troubled) older sister came round the corner, stumbling drunkenly, a beer still clamped in one fist.

"Shit," I said loudly.

Sherlock stopped still in front of her, shoulders back, feet splayed out. "Excuse me," he said.

"Shit, no, Sherlock, don't –" I hurried down the sidewalk, standing protectively in front of the younger guy. "Harry."

"Johnny," she said blearily, and gave an insincere swipe at my face. "You're always my lil brother, my cute Johnny, so lil... HEY. Remember... remember..." She frowned and mumbled at the ground. Sherlock was still, silent, behind me.

"Harry, get inside."

"Mum will be livid." Her face broke into a manic grin, and uncontrollable laughter took over. She was clutching her sides, about to keel over onto the road, guffawing. "Mum will be so-ho-ho livid."

"Okay, okay." I sucked in a breath and grabbed her wrist.

"Don't touch me," she said, and backed up unsteadily.

"Please go inside the house. You're going to get hurt."

"Nahhhh." She chuckled.

It happened in an instant; a car horn, a scream, the dull thud of a body hitting the ground. I landed in the hedges, sharp needles poking into my skin. "_Fuck!_" I yelled, jumping to my feet and launching myself onto the pavement. Someone caught me before I fell head first onto a telephone pole.

"You're a liability, John Watson," said Sherlock. He was red-faced, curls every which way, and the tail of his coat had an imprint of a wheel on it.

"You almost got run over," I said breathlessly, grateful for his firm grasp on my elbow.

"I didn't. I heard the car coming from six streets away, deduced that the angle at which it was approaching would inevitably impact your sister, and took necessary action. She's alright. Vomiting on your lawn, right now."

"Thank you," I said, finally regaining the ability to stand on my own. She was struggling to her feet, still very intoxicated, but safe. "Are you okay?"

"I did hit the ground a bit hard." He pressed his ribs, wincing slightly. "I think I'm fine. Just bruised."

"I have bandages inside."

He paused, eyes flickering between me and my sister. "I think it's best if I leave."

"Right." I flushed. "I'm so sorry, I – you shouldn't have had to –"

"John. It's perfectly fine." He pressed his lips together, gave a small, reassuring nod. "Don't worry."

"Okay."

He looked at me for a moment longer, then turned around and started plodding towards his house.

"Sherlock?" I called. He did not slow down.

"Johnny, he's lurvely," babbled Harry.

"He saved your sodding arse," I said angrily, seizing her none too gently under the armpits. "I'm calling Molly."

"We aren't friends," she whined, limp in my arms.

"She's the closest you've got to one."

"She's Mum's favorite."

"We're family friends, Harry. She's like a cousin. She's the only other one who knows about you."

"And that boy... that boy Sh.. Sher... Sherlock. _Sherly. _Sherly you're in love with Sherly. Oh, I'm funny."

"Stop it."

"Sherrrrrr –"

"Yes, whatever, him too. He knows about you now. Get up. Go and wait in the kitchen."

"Johnny, I'm _hungry._"

I hated my life. "Deal with it." I was going to fail science, no doubt. And I had _this_ to deal with, and I just... deep breaths.

Leaving her on the grass, I pulled out my mobile and dialed Molly Hooper's number.

"Molls?"

"John! What's up?" She sounded surprised, but her voice was clear; I hadn't woken her, and she hadn't been partying.

"Harry..." I was suddenly very exhausted. "Harry's..."

"I'll be there in ten," she said briskly, and hung up.

–––––

"You shouldn't have to do this," I said apologetically as she got off her bike and knelt down beside my sister. "You're fifteen, you've got better things to do."

"I care about her. So do you. Come on, put her in the recovery position. Like I taught you."

We rearranged her flaccid limbs. "Thank you," I said. "God, I'm sick of people saving her for me all the time. Isn't that my job?"

Molly looked at me, quirked her mouth sadly. "It shouldn't be anybody's job. The only one who can really save her is herself."

"Yeah, well, try telling her that."

"I know."

"Do you think this one's bad?"

"Not as bad as last time, wouldn't you think?"

I took inventory; Harry had been drinking for a solid four years now, and I was well attuned to her body language, knew from a flick of the wrist how bad the hangover would be. Sherlock may have known the current state of everything, but I knew the current state of Harry. "No," I said.

Her eyes were fluttering shut. She gave a small hiccup and started to curl into a fetal position. "She's going to fall asleep. We'd better get her inside."

"Yeah." We took our places silently: Molly steadied her by the shoulders while I guided her ankles through the back doorway. Floorboards creaked, but we'd long mastered the art of being quiet, as well as maneuvering our way through Harry's pigsty of a room and tucking her in nicely.

"Goodnight, Harry," said Molly softly, pushing a strand of dirty blond hair out of my sister's face. "We love you."

"Yeah," I whispered, flashbacks of bike rides and playground adventures flitting through my mind. "We really do."

–––––

"What were you doing up so late anyway?" I asked Molly. We had biscuits and apple juice while I tried valiantly to make sense of this godforsaken lab. Damned if the bloke who'd just saved my sister's life was going to do all the work.

"Research."

"Oh. Still want to work at that death place?"

"It's called a morgue. And yes."

"Well, you're smart."

"Thank you. Sorry I'm rubbish at this chem stuff, though. I'm sure Sherlock's got your back on this one. My friend's little sister said he's really intelligent." She yawned and checked her watch. "I should skedaddle."

"Okay." I stood, gave her a hug. Being a painfully late bloomer, I only came up to her chin. "Thank you again."

"No problem. Just please... please tell your Mum."

Mum would suspect. Did she really need confirmation? "She'll worry."

"Just be honest."

"But I..."

"Honesty is the best policy."

I stuck my tongue out at her. She wagged a finger at me and mounted her bicycle, slipping her long ponytail through the back of her helmet before clipping it on.

"Bye, Johnny," she said.

"Bye," I said, and watched her cycle down the road until she turned the corner and was gone.

–––––

He answered the door before I could even raise my fist to knock. "Hello," he said.

I gawked at him. "I didn't –"

"Your gait is distinctive."

"So you just...?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes. I'm assuming you're here about the lab?"

"Yeah. I, er, tried to... well, it was rather late, and..." I passed him a handful of lined paper, embarrassed. "Sorry. It's not very..."

He didn't say a word, merely read my clumsy writing, and gave it back. Then he went to his desk in the living room and emerged with a neat, typewritten print-out. "Here," he said. "You can turn this in."

"What?" Utterly confused, I flipped through the packet. "You did all of this? You wrote this? This is, like, professional. I can't take credit."

"I wrote that awhile ago," he said dismissively. "You were preoccupied last night. Therefore, it is perfectly acceptable for you to borrow my work."

"But that's... lying. Cheating." Sherlock seemed so rule-driven, such a goody two shoes. Never color outside of the lines.

"Do you understand it?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then you grasp the material, which was the only goal of the assignment. Take it."

"How did you do all this research so quickly?"

"I told you, I wrote that awhile ago."

"But this was assigned on Thursday."

"Oh. No, not for me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He seemed almost embarrassed, before he cleared his throat and said stiffly, "I've already done the lab."

"Yeah, last night."

"No, last year, actually. I used to have the unfortunate habit of sneaking into other classrooms during my lunch period, so the chemistry teachers finally just told me to do the labs if it would shut me up. I did this one during that one really rainy week and I was stuck inside, so I kind of wrote up five different analyses of the results. They're all correct, by the way. I checked. I only handed one in, so I've got four extras just... just in case." He pursed his lips, a shadow of uncertainty passing over his face. "If you don't like that one...?"

"I..." I was speechless. "Of course."

"Of course you like it? I've others, if you don't deem it competent."

"This is like a bloody textbook, of course I 'deem it competent.'"

"Don't mock me, John, it's very unflattering. Mycroft does it all the time and I detest it. I know I speak in an odd manner –"

"Stop. You don't speak weird."

"Weird_ly_."

"Shut up. I'm trying to thank you here."

"My apologies. Continue." He folded his hands on the table.

"Thank you for last night, and for this," I said.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Is that it? Lengthy. I can really tell you're grateful."

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know. Social interactions, if you hadn't noticed, are not my strong suit."

"Right. So." Why were we always in the awkward position of saying goodbye, but not really saying goodbye quite yet?

"Goodbye," he said. Well, that should do it.

I slowly headed for the door.

He cleared his throat. "Would you... do you want me to walk you?"

"What?"

"To your house. In case your life needs saving."

"I think I'm good."

"Alright."

"Yes." I ducked my head and left.

When I looked up once I was on the sidewalk, I caught him staring at me from his window. If it was anybody else, I'd have screamed, possibly given them the finger, and laughed about it at lunch the next day.

But it wasn't anybody else. Instead, I smiled encouragingly at the kid, and he raised his hand in a hesitant wave.

Maybe having Sherlock Holmes as my lab partner wasn't so bad after all.


	2. The Bus

"Are you going?"

Sherlock glanced up, then looked back at his book without a word.

I stood there, hands awkwardly thrust into my pockets. Tosser. "Are you going?" I repeated, and jerked my head towards the school bulletin. "There's a dance tonight."

"No," Sherlock said flatly. "I have no interest in such a frivolous waste of time and money."

"Okay, god." I was irrationally pissed off, and had no idea why the next words rolled off my tongue. "Do you want to come over?"

He raised an eyebrow. "When?"

"Today. After school."

He contemplated this, then put his book away and propped his elbows on the edge of the table, steepling his fingers in one effortless sweep. "I'm not going to give you the answers to the test on Monday."

"What? Jesus Christ, that wasn't what I had in mind at all."

"Oh."

"Wait, there isn't a test on Monday."

"Pop quiz. Predictable."

"Well, either way, I thought we could, you know, hang out."

He looked genuinely confused. "What does that entail?"

"I dunno, we could watch TV, get pizza. Harry's at a friend's house."

"Oh. I don't generally watch television."

I seriously considered revoking my invitation. I'd see if Molly could visit. I didn't fancy being alone on Friday nights, with Mum yelling at insurance because they didn't want to cover an eighteen-year-old unemployed alcoholic.

"Alright," Sherlock said just as I was about to take it back.

"You'll come over?"

"Is that not the plan you just proposed?"

"John!" called Mary Morstan from across the cafeteria. She'd had a universally acknowledged crush on me since primary school; we were sort of a _thing_, but I didn't think holding hands once in a while and slow dancing at Adriana Lopez's quinceanera qualified as dating. "Coming with?"

"Yeah, be there in a sec." I gathered my things and said, "I'll see you on the bus then."

Sherlock blanched slightly. "We can't walk?"

"It's a 45-minute walk, are you insane?"

"I do it every day."

Blimey. I'd always assumed his mum picked him up.

"It doesn't matter," he said quickly, crumpling his cellophane sandwich wrapper up and binning it. "I can walk to your house and meet you there."

"Why don't you want to take the bus?"

His eyes flickered nervously to the cluster of boys lurking in the lobby. "My experiences on the bus have never been of a particularly positive nature."

Shit. I should've known. Those prats were always making fun of him. I made up my mind to kick them the next time they did. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"It's perfectly fine." He maintained a tone of mild disinterest, but there was something strained in his voice. "So it's settled, then?"

"I –"

Mary approached us, flashing Sherlock a cursory smile, and gently tugged the crook of my elbow. "Hey, we're leaving now."

"Oh, um, okay. Wait." Sherlock glanced back up at me; the moment Mary had joined us, his head buried itself in the pages of _Dante's Inferno_ again. "I'll see you after school."

"At your house," he clarified. "Not on the bus."

"_John._ We're running out of time. Sorry," she apologized to Sherlock, who waved a hand dismissively. "Come on."

I followed Mary outside, thinking about Sherlock, and the way his spine stiffened when I asked him about the bus. I'd witnessed his torment since we were little; why I never did anything, why I never stepped in, was beyond me. I thought of all the awful things I could do to make them pay – I was relatively popular, and growing up around Harry's dramatic phone conversations about who broke whose heart and then wore the same shirt as so-and-so's ex (the nerve!) had taught me a thing or two about social manipulation.

"Are you okay?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, fine," I said quickly. God, what was wrong with me? I shouldn't care about him.

"Good." She beamed. "Are you and Sherlock going to the dance tonight?"

"No, actually, I think we're going to study." A white lie. We might end up studying, who knew? I felt bad, though. Mary was the only one of my friends who'd been wholly accepting – even supportive – of my friendship with Sherlock. I did like her. She was a wonderful friend. It was just that, for whatever reason, I hadn't taken to girls the way they'd taken to me. My "relationships" thus far had been warm and affable and fun, and I'd kissed past paramours (if they could be called that, which was dubious at best) but it never gave me an exceptionally _good_ feeling. More like a vague sort of acknowledgement that yes, we were compatible, and yes, we cared a moderate amount for each other, and yes, we were mature teenagers doing couply things for shits and giggles.

"Oh, alright. I'll miss you. It's just as well, though. Catherine's having a mental breakdown over another breakup, so that requires my attention."

The rest of our posse were waiting at the end of the drive, crammed into Ben Talbot's older brother's car. We drove into town, and the entire way there all I could think of was Sherlock, sitting alone, walking alone, reading alone, home alone, and it broke my fucking heart.

–––––

"Hi," I said, locating the familiar head of curls in a mass of kids cluttering the lobby.

Sherlock spun around in surprise, one of the first times I'd ever seen him disoriented. "Hi," he said cautiously. "You just missed the bus."

"We're walking," I said firmly.

"But –"

I didn't know why, but I grabbed his wrist and dragged him out the door with me. "Come on."

"Well, alright," he said. "I hope I didn't cut into your social time with Mary."

"It's fine." I struggled for a moment: how did I explain to him that social time with my "girlfriend," if she could even be called that, was the least of my priorities? That, shockingly, he had become one of the most?

"I hope you understand about the bus." He puffed out a little breath, brow furrowed, eyes glittering with some sort of emotion. Anger? Fear? Sadness?

"Sod the bus," I said. "You're with me now."

–––––

Molly was waiting at home when we got there.

"Johnny!" She hugged me. "Your mum's been going mad!"

"Shit. I forgot to phone her."

"Hi, Sherlock," Molly said warmly, putting an arm around his narrow shoulders, then rounded on me. "What were you thinking?"

"I dunno, me and Sherlock were just going to hang out –"

"This is the most foolish thing you've ever done," she said. "After Harry, how do you think she's going to respond when her only other child goes MIA?"

"Sorry! Where is she now?"

"At the station."

"The _police?_"

"You can hardly blame her."

"God, she's going to be livid."

"Yeah."

The three of us stood in the kitchen, contemplating our fates.

"I'd better ring her," Molly finally said.

"I'm sorry for any inconvenience I have caused," Sherlock said as Molly dialed the number. Why was he apologizing?

"It's got nothing to do with you."

"I know, but if you had simply taken the bus..."

"I'm not taking the bus. Not anymore. Not after –"

"John," he said sharply. "Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"You have no knowledge of the circumstances which led to my aversion of public transportation."

"I've enough smarts to gather that those idiots were awful to you. Which, incidentally, you did not deserve."

"It's my life. Do not interfere." His eyes were blazing now: defensive beyond belief. Molly shot me a concerned look, phone pressed to her ear.

I didn't have room to question why I was so inexplicably protective of an older boy who used to dissect frogs at recess in nursery school. "What did they do?" I demanded.

He paused, licked his lips nervously. I tried to look slightly less murderous as he answered quietly, "Your standard name-calling. Verging on verbal and emotional abuse. And they did not hesitate to get physical."

I hated them. "Do they leave you alone now?"

"For the most part."

"_Sherlock._"

He shrugged. "Technically, no. There is still a lot of, ah, resentment."

"Do they still hurt you?"

He shifted. "Sometimes."

I was going to kill them. "When?"

"At lunch. They've made it into a sort of game, as a matter of fact. About thirty-five percent intriguing and sixty-five percent amusing. They give laughably easy clues."

What kind of sick "game" was this? "Clues?"

"Of sorts. Threats may be the more accurate word. I was actually about to follow up on one of them when you showed up this afternoon. I believe I ought to thank you." He gave a pained smile. "At any rate."

"Your mum's really mad," Molly announced, striding back into the room. "I tried to calm her down a bit. Dunno how much good that did."

"Thanks, Molls," I said. "You tried."

"Yeah." She hesitated, then turned to Sherlock. "I overheard your conversation" – "Naturally," he said, inclining his head somberly – "and I just want you to know that bullying isn't okay. No matter what their motives are. I'm, um. Here for you."

He looked bewildered at such a proposition, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen for quite some time before shaking his head and giving a stiff, "Thank you."

"So now we just... wait?" I said.

Molly sighed and went to the fridge. "Might as well have a snack in the meantime."

I glanced tentatively at Sherlock, whose brow was somewhat stormy as he took a seat next to me and centered his glass of milk on the counter. "You okay?" I asked in an undertone.

He stared straight ahead. "I am not accustomed to people being there for me," he said frankly, and took a bite of biscuit.

–––––

Mum was, indeed, really mad. She shouted at me for a solid ten minutes, during which Sherlock lost interest and, before I could stop him, drifted off in the direction of my room. Molly, bless her heart, stayed and bore the brunt of it with me.

"...and you could have at least informed me that we have a house guest!" Mum concluded.

"I'm sorry," I said for the millionth time. "I forgot." It sounded stupid even to my ears.

"Where _is_ he, come to that?" Molly inquired.

"In my room."

She raised an eyebrow. "And that's not weird because...?"

I didn't have a very valid answer. "I dunno. It's Sherlock." Then, since both Mum and Molly were now looking at me strangely – I guess the normal response to a kid you didn't know well snooping around your room would not be blasé acceptance – I added, "I'll go look for him."

He was perched on the edge of my bunk bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Hi," I said, joining him. "Sorry about that. I don't blame you for leaving."

"Nothing suggested that my presence would be beneficial."

How the hell was I supposed to respond to that?

"I do not like conflict," he confessed. "I have seen far too much of it."

"Me too." I thought of Harry, then the fact that he saved her life.

"How is she?"

"Haven't heard from her in a bit. Could be good, could be bad."

"Where does she go, when she's not at home?"

"Parties. Motels. I don't really know any specifics."

"You do know that she has a girlfriend."

What?

"Obvious, really."

_What?_

"You needn't worry. Her girlfriend's quite caring. Doesn't drink much. Older by about three years."

I gaped at him. He smiled a little, then hopped off the bed and jerked his head towards the stairs. "Is this the appropriate time to begin the process of 'hanging out'?"

"Um." Harry. Harry had a girlfriend.

"Perhaps I oughtn't to have said that." He frowned. "It was not intended to be upsetting, and I see no reason, for that matter, why it should be. She is in a relationship; that is where she disappears to. They have a fight, she drinks and comes running back home. Rudimentary deduction."

I stared at him; he blinked at me. "Yeah, okay," I said. "I'll order a pizza."


End file.
